


we can work it out

by sgt_jerk



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Crozier and Fitzjames are two bastards alike in dignity, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone's their canonical ages because i love old men, Folk Music, Folk band AU, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgt_jerk/pseuds/sgt_jerk
Summary: English Folk band The Terrors are down a member, but when their manager brings on a new player to fill out their sound, banjoist and founding member Francis Crozier is none too pleased. When cellist James Fitzjames' playing can not only only keep up, but fit in seamlessly with his, the group will have to go along to get along in order to break through and compete against other local acts.Feelings are caught, bands are battled, and yees are hawed.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	we can work it out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grumblebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/gifts).



The bridge dropped into Silna’s new tune was getting away from him. The last thing he wanted was to be awake late into the night, figuring out new songs, but here he was, fingers getting sore and sorer still by the amber light of his ancient living room lamp, slowly losing the thread of the song entire. 

“Goddamn it.” Francis spat, jiggling a leg nervously. 

“You done in there?” Blanky shouted in at him from the kitchen.

“….Just about.”

“Well, steady on then.” 

Francis set down his banjo with a gently metallic twang, swapping the instrument for a half empty pack of cigarettes. Hoisted the window open, leaned halfway out into the crisp November night air. He nearly knocked his head on the sash when Blanky knocked on the panes above him. 

“Ey. No letting the cold in without me.” 

Francis leaned back in, tucking a lighter in the empty space in the pack, and handing it back to his roommate. Finishing his last drag, he settled on the window seat while Blanky took his place. 

“Dishes’re done. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Hrm.”

“You’re no good before the band’s little dates with Franklin, you know that?”

“I just know he’s going to try to pull some smart move. He’s got some flash new recruit he’s recommended to us for an audition.” He ambled over to the fridge for a fresh glass of ice. He figured he must have at least another hour or so of practice in him before the whiskey sent him straight to bed, and he was determined to make the most of it. 

“He tries someone new every month.”

“Besides the point!” He fished a practiced hand into the liquor cabinet. A slightly heavier pour, this time, just because Blanky had brought up John Franklin. “The man’s got shit instincts, and no respect besides.”

“Don’t be an arse, Frank.” He called back, coughing lightly.

He chose not to dignify that with a response, and sat his glass down on the coffee table with a dull thud. He hefted the instrument and began picking away at the bridge. He’d decided long ago that if their manager was going to audition someone new every month, he damn well wasn’t going to make it easy for whoever Franklin had brought.

They’d been so close to breaking through. He could feel it. The Terrors were too promising, too skilled for him to settle for just any old replacement. No matter how hard Franklin had insisted that a temporary member was better than no member at all. 

“Well, let me know how your pissing match with the poor new sod goes.” Blanky said, matter of fact, taking Francis’ not-yet-empty whiskey glass with him. “The yard wants me in early, I’m off to bed.” He stumped back to the kitchen, yawning as he went. 

Francis felt himself groan, mostly against his will, but let him go without reaching for the glass. The notes were slipping by and his shoulders ached, of all things. 

If only Bridgens hadn’t had to go and get married, for chrissakes. Who _did_ that sort of thing. 

#

The pub was mostly deserted, but for The Terrors and for the sleepy-looking bartender wiping down glasses, but then again, it was 11 AM. 

“…And where did he go to school?” Harry Goodsir asked, all polite interest, picking nervously at his fiddle’s E string. 

“Didn’t, actually.” Franklin replied, with more than a touch of a smug look playing around his mouth. The flash bastard. “Aha, Francis!” He called out with a wave that was far too enthusiastic for the early hour. “Looking chipper, as always. I’m glad you could make my little impromptu get-together.”

He searched his spirit for the will to screw his face into a more pleasant expression, and found no such resource available. “John. Morning to you.” 

Silna shot him a look, and shoved a half-drunk thermos of strong black tea into his free hand. “Ed and Tom got caught late on the train, for a change of pace.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “You look a mess.”

“I showered.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She replied, pointedly eyeing his vest, whose buttons hadn’t quite made it up the right way that morning. “You could at least pretend to care.”

He took a hefty swig of the tea, liberally spiked with honey and lemon. “I could.” He huffed a laugh, handing the rest back to her. “Besides, that bridge and second verse you wrote kept me up late. It was excellent.” 

She rolled her eyes, but grinned at him and turned back to join Harry and Franklin, who looked as if he was drawing himself up for a minor speech. 

“Well, I assume Mr. Little and Mr. Jopson will be joining us presently, but at any rate, I wanted to recommend someone to join The Terrors.” 

“I’m _shocked_ , sir.” 

Franklin jutted out his chin, hands on his hips. “Now, Francis-”

Before he could get any further, Ed Little and Tom Jopson slunk into the pub as quietly as possible, instruments in tow. That Ed was toting an upright bass made any attempt at subtlety a moot point, but Francis supposed it was the thought that counted. 

“Ah! There we are. Just in time.”

“Sorry Mr. Franklin…” Ed mumbled.

“Yes, it won’t happen again!” Jopson pepped back, already hanging up his peacoat and propping his mandolin case on a barstool. 

“Please, _John_. Not to worry lads.” He cleared his throat, immediately back in full form. “...As I was saying, I’d like to recommend a talented fellow to supplement the band’s sound. Of course, not that anyone can truly replace our dear Bridgens, but I’d be wholly remiss if I didn’t recommit myself to finding someone to add that special dimension to The Terrors.” 

“We never asked you to recommit yourself.” Francis realized his tone came out more sardonic than he’d intended, but could barely bring himself to care. Their sniping was a monthly ritual, at this point, and Bridgens had been off at his new teaching post, happily wed, for over six months now. That they hadn’t managed to truly fill a gig since then was even worse consolation about the whole situation. 

“No, no, _you’d_ never ask me to, Francis. Of that I’m certain.” Franklin shot him a significant look that he managed to dodge. “But as your manager I feel obligated to assist.”

“To be fair, the last two cellists you brought couldn’t improvise.” Ed replied. 

“And I know we all met through the conservatory but that doesn’t mean it’s the best place to find replacements.” Silna added. 

“Well. It’s a good thing that I chose not to go through the conservatory this time ‘round.” Franklin said, a glow of pride about his words, eyebrows raised in expectation. “And you lot had better not say much else, because he’s on his way over in a few minutes.”

He strode towards the back to pull a diet soda from the fridge, leaning over to where Francis leaned on the bar as he did. “Be easy, Francis, won’t you?” He said, in the easy, low tones of a man unused to having to repeat himself. He flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and spite as Franklin walked off, throwing back the can Diet Coke.

Jopson promptly bumped up next to him, giving his arm a gentle nudge. 

“Tune up with me? The cold in the station did a number on my strings.” It was, after all, difficult to be truly sour when Tom was so determinedly good natured. The young man shot him a bright little grin, and led him towards the rest of the band. Francis unpacked his banjo with less trepidation than expected, plinking away determinedly and trying not to think too hard. 

In a matter of moments, there was a flurry of motion as Franklin darted out of the pub door, cell phone in hand. He quickly swept back in with another man in tow. 

“Terrors, I’d like for you to meet Mr. James Fitzjames,” He held an arm out towards the tall, thin man, Vanna White style. Francis could hear Ed barely choke back a snort at the name. “He’s been playing solo gigs about town in a variety of experimental venues, and he’s graciously agreed to….mutually audition with the band.” Fitzjames shot a grin at the lot of them, smile lines under high cheekbones deepening. 

“Pleasure, I’m sure.” He certainly wasn’t the fresh-from-uni student type that Franklin had taken to bringing them recently. The man was doubtless closer to his own age than Ed and Tom’s, with light crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Francis made a point not to dwell on it. 

“…Mutually audition.” The comment was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. 

Franklin sighed. “Yes. _Mutually_ audition,” Fitzjames continued to fix his expression in an amiable smile, brushing wavy brown hair behind his ear. Francis hoped he wasn’t a total idiot. 

Franklin powered forward regardless. “I’d love for you all to give him some time to play with the band, I’ve attended a few shows of his and I truly believe his style and pluck would be a spectacular fit.”

“Well, we’d love to hear from you. If now’s a good time?” Tom said, pulling up a chair near the group’s and beaming up at Fitzjames. 

“Just wonderful.” Franklin looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Well, I’ll let you all get on with it!” He announced, without much further ceremony, and puttered off to the bar’s basement. There was a beat of silence as Fitzjames turned to unlatch a well-worn yet rich amber-colored cello from a case as The Terrors eyed each other. As he turned to settle in his chair, Silna cleared her throat. 

“Introductions, then? I’m Silna, vocals. This is Edward, bass. Harry, fiddle, and Tom, second fiddle, and Francis, on banjo…” 

“Ah, but you’ve already been introduced to me.” He plucked at his A and D strings in turn, tuning easily as he went. “Please do call me James. John is always a touch too formal about these things for his own good.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Goodsir responded.

“Same.” Little said.

“The pleasure’s all mine, truly. I was at one of the last shows that John Bridgens played at, and-”

“Let’s get this over with, if you all don’t mind.” He said, flatly. “We’ve got Silna’s new track to get going on.”

Goodsir’s brow furrowed, but he graced Fitzjames with the key before he started up into a swift rendition of _Little Sadie_. They all knew the tune it like the backs of their hands, and Silna picked up on the quick tempo easily on the first verse. Little sped up in time, and Jopson’s supporting melody filled it well. Francis fell in a touch too fast, pushing them all through the first breakdown with ease. It was well practiced and complex, with the improvised bits varying only slightly on the same theme, notes dancing up and down the scale- within limits. It was deceptively simple, easy to trip up on, but fast as all hell. 

Fitzjames picked up the key and pace well enough- keeping a lower bass line with Little and, no sooner than they’d reached the end of the first chorus, had jumped to Goodsir’s melody, rapidly transposing the higher notes to bass clef. When Francis took the first breakdown, he took the second, fingers flying just as fast as Francis had pushed them. At the end, he fell back in with Little’s thrumming steam-engine of a bassline, easily, seamlessly. 

“Another, if you please.”

This time, Jopson started up a mid-tempo dance number ( _Lulu Gal_ , Francis recognized within a bar or so). Just as easily, Fitzjames picked up on the initial bassline, dancing easily around Little’s notes like it was nothing. Once again, they all blazed through the tune, with Fitzjames doing something fiddly and skillful around the second chorus. His brow was knit in concentration, fingers flying around the improvised bits.

The bastard was _showing off_. Not enough to be a real nuisance, but just enough to let them know that he was more than capable. Something next to anger rose right up to Francis’ chest and burbled there, until it was his turn to pick a tune, and without preamble he launched into the fastest, most vicious version of _Foggy Mountain Breakdown_ that his fingers could muster. He could feel Little lagging slightly, Goodsir and Tom hurrying to keep up with him, but to his vast irritation, Fitzjames hopped right up on the beat and stayed there like a damn cinder block. 

When it was done, he looked up to find that the other man had nary a hair out of place. 

“Well!” Goodsir said, only slightly winded. 

“Well?” Fitzjames asked. 

“We-” Francis started, before Silna jumped in to cut him off. 

“....We’ll absolutely be in contact within the week. Thank you so much for coming, James, it was a lot of fun.” 

“Of course! Thank you, you all are quite talented.” With a smile, he shook Silna’s hand, gathering up his things and zipping his instrument back into its case. For a beat, Francis met his gaze and something in Fitzjames’ expression shifted quizzical, like he was considering him. Before he could make much of it, James Fitzjames hoisted the cello on his back. His long legs strode out the pub door and into the crisp autumn air, and Francis was left to stew. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love bluegrass and I love stupid fluffy AUs and I cannot be held accountable for what has come from this nonsense. Also The Terrors definitely sound like Crooked Still, a fantastic defunct folk band from Boston. 
> 
> Title of the work comes from one of my favorite covers: https://youtu.be/cmOY2ur5LBw  
> Playlist of all tracks mentioned: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7wxg4mjdbJj9UnaOcrN9K7?si=JZzjeSoKSRK48MlqNE5SYA


End file.
